Easter greetings to all. It seems appropriate to the season that the blog is getting one of its periodic resurrections now. I'll be heading into tech at the end of the week, so perhaps it's not the best time to attempt such a revival, but it's also probably true that writing is like having children. Namely in that it's painful, time-consuming, and raises questions of self-cannibalism and whether anyone should be eating a placenta on toast, but also in that there most likely never a good time to start, so you might as well just decide to do it.
Following my death from Seagull at the end of January, I wavered in and out of sickness for nearly a month. My recovery probably would have gone much more quickly had I not gone straight from The Seagull into stage managing a production of Mac Wellman's Dracula -- and having just a week's respite from that delightful but life-sucking project before being thrown onto working electrics crew. I did manage to squeeze in periods of health here and there over the course of that month -- I went clubbing in Hell's Kitchen with my pal Pell and ended up crashing with her and a visiting New Zealander for the entire weekend, mostly kept up with my Don't Be An Alcoholic diet and exercise regimen (except when clubbing, of course, though I actually stayed almost depressingly sober, despite my best efforts) -- but it was just these endless rolling waves of grossness and generally looking like I'd been run over by a tractor trailer. A wave would pass and flatten me, and then I'd begin to reinflate, full of hope, only to be bowled over yet again.
In fact, I'd thought that I was finally over it as I clawed my way into March. Electrics crew was pretty tiring, but I didn't really have anything else going on. Nothing else that I would admit to, at least, until, as usual, things came to a head. I was at Beers, the weekly-ish end-of-the-work-week party hosted by the tech students, with that particular week being sponsored by the dean of the school. As such, the beer and pizza were free and of somewhat higher quality than usual, to say nothing of the dean joining the festivities. So that's how I ended up playing drunken Catchphrase with the dean, as one does. Really, it was a grand night.
Then I got home to the news that my dog Hux had died after a week of sudden illness that turned out to have been Lyme disease that quickly spiraled into kidney failure and spent the next hour or so alernately sobbing and throwing up and just generally passing out on the floor of my bathroom. Whatever health I had recovered also went straight down the toilet, and I went into full-blown fevered misery for the next couple of days.
That sent me back, in an oddly specific sort of way. I seem to have a bad history with dogs dying and missed human connection. I lost my first dog when I was about ten years old, the kindest mostly-golden-retriever mutt who had just reached the limits of old age. I had been involved in some sort of writing group at the time, some summer camp type thing with a certain number of session. It was wonderful, I remember, if only because I thought that I might be on the verge of making some fantastic friends -- and then Whisky died on the day that would have been the last class, so, of course, I didn't attend. I didn't have the contact information for any of the other kids, didn't even have their full names. And there wasn't another chance to see the again.
In the week before losing Hux, I'd miraculously managed to have a night free when the graduate student government was hosting a speed-dating event. Why not, I thought to myself, let's give love a chance. So I signed myself up and trucked myself over to the grad student pub -- only to be given my money back and a free drink ticket because of how very few people were signed up for my dating preference category. There were, in fact, seven of us, which a speed-dating event does not really make. But we all hung out and enjoyed our extra free drinks while the other crowds milled about in a timed and incredibly noisy hubbub.
And I ended up in conversation with someone for quite a while. We kind of hit it off, went our separate ways with other friends who were also in the pub, and then found each other again and spent more time talking. I went home with a new number programmed into my phone...
...and then a couple days later: Hux. And then sickness. And then it had been an awkwardly long period of time. And then, I called anyways and left a voicemail. And then... I received a missed call without any voicemail. And then, of course, my work took me out of town to New York City for a week. (More on that later, have no fear.) And then it was an even more awkwardly long period of time -- perhaps irreparably awkward.
So it seemed that history was doomed to repeat itself. Only once so far, to be honest, but it's such a specific sort of repetition that I think it bears noting.
A couple days ago, I was skimming through one of the e-mails that I get from OK!Cupid. Apparently, the highly scientific and magical calculations and divinations (I believe in a holistic approach) of a free online dating website have determined that I should say hi to someone whom I met in a bar at a failed speed dating event over a month ago.
Maybe this is a twist ending to a story. Or more likely, just one more twist within it. In any case, it is a bright spot. For all that life has been good lately, my firm determination not to deal with feelings and, as a result, the only feeling being able to make its way through being a very recently developed anger has been putting a damper on things, one that should not be there. It could be a sort of spring fever, coupled with my general emotional constipation. I just feel the need to put on a sharp suit and get on a train to far, far away.
So here, have a bit of delightfulness:
